


Rest for the Fallen

by petrarchbaelish



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol warning, Angst, Gen, Manpain, baby's first ao3 fic, but not.... sUPER ANGSTY?, nobody dies IN IT but they talk about a lotta dead people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 20:56:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3623979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petrarchbaelish/pseuds/petrarchbaelish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Here Lies the Abyss, a warden and a commander remember absent friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rest for the Fallen

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been sitting on this idea for WEEKS, and generally the Cullistair ship's been fermenting in my mind as well. This isn't a very shippy work, but could open up for a longer, somewhat shippy storyline, depending on how it's received. I also haven't written in prose for a very, very long time (I'm working in script media right now) so I hope it's not too heinous in that regard. And it's my first crack at AO3 so please let me know if I screwed up the tags or something. I have no idea.

It would be good to see a familiar face at the end of it all. Cullen—Maker, how long had it been since he’d seen Cullen? Ten years, at least, and then he was—not himself. Alistair couldn’t know whether the Commander was the same man he’d known as a recruit at the Kinloch monastery. He could only hope the shared blood on their hands might provide some common ground.

After some inquiries he found Cullen looking out from the battlements of Adamant, into the endless sand sea of the Western Approach. Washed in moonlight, the desert looked serene, pale blue dunes dotted with hardy desert shrubs and loping varghests.

Where to begin?

“Er—nice view, isn’t it? Could almost believe nothing happened at all, right?”

Cullen bristled, his furs shifting as he turned to look Alistair in the eye. His expression softened when he realised just who was speaking, but he was still weary.

“I can’t believe it. Not when I know otherwise. I’m—I’m glad to see you survived, Alistair.”

“So am I.” The pause dragged too long. “Um, drink? There’s conscription ale here. Dangerous stuff, but—“

“I’d be glad to drink almost anything just now.”

* * *

 

They brought two crates to the battlements and a bottle of conscription ale—“Vintage: Warden Tams. Started honeywine, finished dragon’s-tongue brandy. Share at your own risk.” He didn’t know Warden Tams. Likely they were dead. If not, well, reparations could be made in time. Alistair took the first swig, and the stuff burned going down, tasting of burnt sugar, sour apples, and smoke. He passed it to Cullen, who sat with his elbows on his knees as he stared at nothing.

“Can’t drink it if you don’t take the bottle, you know,” he suggested.

Cullen reached without looking, precariously grabbed the neck and quaffed. He broke into a graceless cough. “Agh—What did you say it’s made of?”

“Nothing in particular. Lots of things. You add to it as you go, it’s tradition. Lot of Grey Warden life is like that—pieced together, dusted off, used again. It’d go to waste otherwise.”

The commander only nodded, and contemplated the mouth of the bottle in his hands for a long time before speaking again. “When you came back out—the Champion wasn’t with you, was he.”

“No, he—he wasn’t. We were—there wasn’t much choice. I’d have stayed, but he—his brother’s a Warden, and so was his—“

“Anders, yes.”

“I guess he has faith there’s something to rebuild in the Order.” He couldn’t bring himself to refer to Hawke in the past tense, not yet.

“He’s a good man. I might not have agreed with his methods, but—he had conviction. He knew when something was worth sacrificing, when –“

“He did what he had to. We all did. We all _do_. Cullen, we’re not—we’re not Maker-touched heroes with a penchant for martyrdom. The _inquisitor_ might be, but that’s another matter altogether.”

Cullen raised the bottle. “To the Champion of Kirkwall. To Knight-Commander Meredith, even though she went too far, and First Enchanter Orsino. To every brother I lost in Kirkwall and Kinloch to the folly of Mages—and every Mage lost to the Chantry’s mistrust.” He drank deeply, refused to wince. When he passed the bottle to Alistair, he had an air of expectation.

“To—all the soldiers, Inquisition and Wardens, who died for our sake tonight. To, Warden-Commander Clarel, who thought she was saving us. Connor Guerrin, who only wanted to help his father. And—to the Hero of Ferelden, Warden Mahariel, who never asked to join us, and was the truest, kindest sister I’ve been proud to have. I’m sorry I’m not very good at eulogizing.” Alistair took a drink, but left a few drops behind; a Warden’s ritewine could never be empty.

“Where are you going after this?” Cullen’s voice was tight.

“Weisshaupt. I have to tell them what’s happened here, even if the others are staying. ‘In Peace, Vigilance.’ Even over our own. I hope Command can learn that.”

“You should stay a while. Regroup. Skyhold’s got the space, and surely Weisshaupt can wait a fortnight? Like it or not, you _are_ something of a hero. Having you around would boost morale.”

“Oh, it’d boost morale, eh? Not, ‘Oh Alistair, you’re such a dear old friend and I need someone I can hug in an inscrutable and manly fashion because the world’s gone all to pieces, it’s very confusing?’”

Cullen’s laugh was closer to a sigh; he couldn’t quite say whether it meant relief or frustration. Perhaps both.

“You’ll never get me to say so.”


End file.
